Pumped Up Kicks
by destielocked
Summary: AU. After ASiB before HoB. Moriarty returns in his new game. He kidnaps Molly and through her and a lot of violent crimes he manipulates Sherlock and his friends. Lestrade/Molly and John/Sherlock though could be seen as Molliarty. T for swearing/violence.
1. Chapter 1: The Return

**Hey guys! I'm back! This time with a new fandom! BBC Sherlock! Yes, I've entered the realm of crazy. Just check my Tumblr. This is my first Sherlock fanfic so please be kind!**

**Disclaimer: Trollers Moffat and Gatiss own all the characters you recognise! I WISH I owned Sherlock but alas, I don't. NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT OR ANYTHING INTENDED.**

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><p><span>Chapter one: The Return.<span>

Molly Hooper was late at work. Again. Sherlock had left around an hour ago after studying one slide under the microscope, but leaving such a mess you'd think he had studied a hundred. All the bodies were safely packed away and all Sherlock's chemicals he'd left lying around were cleaned up and put into their respective cases.

The dim light cast a grey hue over everything leaving Molly in a rather exhausted mood. Usually she liked the quiet solitude of the morgue but today she just wanted to get home, have a shower and curl under some blankets with Toby and Season 2 of _Glee._

Molly shook her and head and concentrated on her work. She was just finishing organising the paperwork that explained to the medical board that Sherlock was allowed to perform mad experiments on their cadavers and use their equipment. She sighed. However hard the work was, it was nice to have him around; Molly could see that he was a scarred person beneath the act and anything to keep him distracted was good. Even if it meant allowing him to occasionally beat corpses with riding crops.

After one final 'Yes it is safe and yes he is with the police', Molly dragged her cheap, brown, side-bag onto her shoulder and pushed the morgue door open, her heavily lidded gaze on the floor.

Molly's nose brushed fabric and she took an impulsive step back, an apology forming in her mouth. But then she noticed the suit. For a desperate, hopeful second, she thought it was Sherlock and her heart stupidly fluttered.

But it wasn't Sherlock.

Molly's gaze travelled hesitantly from his shiny, black, pointed shoes, up his flawless Westwood suit, to his charming face. Jim. No, Molly corrected herself, James Moriarty. Killer. Murderer. Untrustworthy. But the only noise that escaped her mouth was a meek "Oh!"

Molly recovered from her shock and darted vainly around him. But Jim was too quick for her. He grabbed her wrist and mercilessly spun her around, crushing her left arm helplessly between the wall and her body, while gripping her right wrist tightly behind her back. All Molly could see now was the faded grey of the wall and part of her cheek where it squashed against it.

Molly could feel the hiss of Jim's breath on the back of her neck and felt a thrill of fear tingle up her spine. She sensed him lean towards her and shuddered at the voice in her ear.

"You miss me, Molls?" he chuckled.

Molly didn't say anything; wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Jim sighed as though disappointed, and cruelly twisted her right arm until the pain was too much. Molly gasped and screamed "Yes!"

It was true. Jim had been nice. He had noticed her. He was the person that Molly turned to in the face of Sherlock's cruelty. When Sherlock had told her that Jim was gay, she had ended the relationship to stop her heart from being broken by somebody else. But even after that she'd thought of him.

So when John and the nice D.I. Lestrade had kindly explained that Jim from IT was James Moriarty, consulting criminal, she felt ashamed to have thought about him like that.

Molly's brooding thoughts were wiped from her brain when the grip on her wrist relaxed slightly. Molly used this opportunity to turn her head around and saw that Jim was leaning back and peering down the corridor.

Molly realised that someone, maybe that snide new receptionist Lynda, must have heard her scream. She opened her mouth to scream again but Jim was one step ahead of her. He produced a hypodermic needle seemingly out of nowhere and stabbed it smoothly into the side of her neck. The pain from the needle was nothing compared the fear of what he was going to do to her.

Molly could feel the cold of the liquid slide down her veins and could almost see the particles attacking her nerves. She'd seen many a corpse with liquid like this inside their system.

Molly shook her head to clear her thoughts which were already becoming hazy. She tried to move away from Jim. He had released her wrist. There was no need to restrain her in the state she was in. Molly's eyes closed and she slumped unwillingly against Jim.

Just before she drifted off, she heard Jim say: "I don't like doing the dirty work; my suits are Westwood, hello? But for you, Molls, I made an exception. Don't you feel lucky?"

Jim's grin leered down at her and stamped itself onto her dark mind. It hovered there for a few seconds, before everything was gone.

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><p><strong>What did you think? Please give me constructive criticism! I have a longer second chapter already written. Should I continue? Thank you for reading! If you review I'll be happy but you don't have to :) I'm just happy people are reading it!<strong>

**Thanks!**

**~Molly~**

**P.S. My Tumblr is Johns-been-sherlocked :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Lynda meets Sherlock

**Hi guys! I know I uploaded yesterday but people on Tumblr are so lovely and persuasive! Don't get used to it! Thanks to those reviews and alerts so far! It's really nice of you :)**

**I forgot to say in the last chapter that the title is a song by Foster The People. I recommend it! **

**Just want to thank my reviewers and alerters so far as well as these people from Tumblr:**

**thegirlthatcounts  
>sarahschuening<br>****the-almightly-noeler  
>ovreneli<br>almalore  
>voldyisourking<br>slytherin-cumberbatch  
>moriartymydearwatson<br>koalasmakemehappy  
>althoughdoinfactshutup<br>****sarah-michele**

**Thank you! Pleeease let me know what you think of this one, I want to know if Sherlock is out of character or anything.**

**Thanks again.**

**~Molly Johns-been-sherlocked~**

**Disclaimer: The BBC own Sherlock not me :) No copyright infringement intended.**

**This chapter contains swearing.**

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><p><em>"All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,<em>_you better run, better run, outrun my gun.  
><em>_All the other kids with the pumped up kicks you better run,  
>better run, faster than my bullet."<em>

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><p><span>Chapter two: Lynda meets Sherlock<span>

John muttered an apology at the agape cabby. Sherlock had just informed him that his wife was sleeping with his best friend and his son was 'quite obviously' gay, all the while insulting the cabby's intelligence. John felt pity for him as he climbed out of the taxi. He watched mournfully as the man desperately dialled a number on his mobile and nattered furiously into the device. Another life disrupted needlessly by Sherlock.

The man in question had already swooped through the doors of St. Bart's hospital and stared in impatience at John through the glass doors. John rolled his eyes resignedly and strolled towards the hospital.

John approached Sherlock. "There was no need to deduce that man like that," he sighed.

"Would you have preferred him to continue living surrounded by his family's lies? Of course not. I was being kind."

Without pausing for John to respond, Sherlock stormed past the receptionist's desk, heading towards a pair of double doors which led to a corridor, after which led to the morgue.

The receptionist looked up and stuttered in protest. She had bleached blonde hair and dull grey eyes. Not the normal person; Kathy, with green eyes and ginger hair. She was new. John pleaded with his eyes for her not to say anything further. She took no notice. "Excuse me, that area is restricted for unauthorised visitors. Please state your name and intent in the visitor's book."

The receptionist, Lynda, her name badge read, blinked dully as Sherlock turned on her. "Lynda," Sherlock gave her a cruel fake smile as John pinched the bridge of his nose, expecting the worst. "I see your father's upstairs. Not doing too well, heart attack or stroke?"

"Heart attack, but how–"

Sherlock didn't give her time to answer as he continued in his tirade. "The huge bouquet of flowers on your desk, Lynda. No ring so not from your husband and the flowers are lilies, a long term boyfriend would have given roses, short term would have gone for something smaller, chocolates perhaps. But you have neither: you have a ticket for the theatre sticking out of the breast pocket of your blouse. You're going by yourself, if you were going with somebody, you would have picked up the tickets there, have both with you or your date would have both. That, and the label for the flowers reads 'To Dad, feel better soon, all my love, Lynda.' I can tell it's not going well by the bags under your eyes and the fact your nails and bitten almost to the beds. Nobody else to worry about as you are, as I have previously stated, single, and quite obviously not a mother so you've spent long nights by his bed side. Now, judging by your age, the most common illness would be a heart attack or a stroke. And, obviously, you work here so, for convenience sake he will be at the same hospital you work for. Therefore, he's upstairs. "

Sherlock stopped and leant back, as though satisfied with Lynda's stunned silence and pale face. "I see you're filling in for Kathy while she's on maternity leave, pity, she understood to keep quiet when I'm around."

"Piss off," Lynda snarled but John could see the glint of tears in her eyes. Sherlock smirked with contempt at her before storming back towards the double doors.

"Sorry," John tried in vain to give the stunned woman a smile. "He does that to everyone. We're with Scotland Yard. Here to see Molly Hooper about a body. I'm John Watson and he's Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh yes, I got a warning note from Kathy about you two," Lynda sneered, " 'John Watson is okay but that Sherlock Holmes is a dickhead.' I didn't realise how much until now." She sniffed and scrawled a few words in the visitor's book.

"Thank you," John said, feeling gratified; at least she didn't punch Sherlock in the face. "Sorry again."

"Anyway, if you're here to see Molly, you've had a wasted trip. Molly took a week's leave three days ago for a family emergency."

John opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a sharp crash of wood on brick. He turned to see Sherlock being harried out of the double doors by a flustered looking woman in a lab coat. "I do _not_ have commitment issues and Steve is _not_ being unfaithful, now go AWAY!"

Sherlock brushed his suit down as the woman in the lab coat furiously threw his coat at him. He caught it deftly and opened his mouth for a snarky reply but the red faced woman had already stomped back through the double doors, presumably to the morgue.

"John, it seems that most of Bart's staff has been replaced with utter idiots."

"They're not idiots, Sherlock," John replied quickly, as Lynda opened her mouth to retort. "And yeah, I was just talking to Lynda; Molly took a week's leave because of a family emergency."

At this, Sherlock's head snapped up, his blue eyes glinting. "But Molly doesn't have any family."

"Of course she does, Sherlock, we all have family."

"Her father is dead and her mother and sister think she is a disgrace to the family, what with her working in a morgue, and she is ashamed of them. She takes refuge in her cat and bad TV."

"Have you ever actually spoken to Molly about her family?"

"Not necessary."

John sighed. "So why would Molly take a week's leave because of a family emergency if she is ashamed of them?"

"Precisely. Lynda, we shall need to take a look at the visitor's book."

Sherlock strode towards the desk and swept the book off the table. John watched Sherlock's blue eyes skim nimbly down the pages from three days ago. He saw the writing reflected in his irises and saw the flecks of black in them move quickly side to side like boats on a rough sea... John cleared his throat and forced himself back to the situation at hand.

Sherlock paused at an entry from three days ago. His eyes widened and he passed the book to John.

John scanned down the list until he reached it. Date: January 11th 2012, Intent/ purpose for absence: Family emergency, Signed: -JM

John looked at Sherlock but he was focused on Lynda. "Was Molly with anyone when she signed out?"

"I don't know, maybe," Lynda replied, bored. "I was having a fag when she left. I just assumed the 'JM' was a boyfriend or something– oi!"

John looked around to see the glass entrance doors swinging. Sherlock had left the building. "Sorry," John muttered. _I should just record that so I can just play it to people that Sherlock annoys _he thought.

"I honestly don't know how you put up with him," Lynda sneered. "He must be a cracker in bed for you to deal with all that."

John's eyes widened. "We're not – I mean, he's not –"

"Yeah, yeah."

John flushed a deep red and put the visitor's book on the desk. "Well, um, bye. See you around."

"No offence, but I sure hope not, with him with you."

John nodded and almost ran out of the hospital. He caught Sherlock just as he hailed a taxi. "What does this mean?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock turned to him and grinned wildly. "He's back." They climbed into the cab. "Moriarty's back."

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><p><strong>DUUUUN DUUUUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN<strong>

**heehhee. What did you think? I know I said that you don't have to leave a review, but I REEEEEAAAALLLLY want to know whether Sherlock was written okay. I mean, I had fun writing him but he might be a little OOC. **

**Thank you for reading! Hello to everyone on Tumblr!**

**~Molly Johns-been-sherlocked.~**


	3. Chapter 3: Fear

**Internet is messing up, will add this later. I don't own Sherlock.**

Chapter three: Fear

Molly was dragged from the darkness slowly by a pounding throb. At first it was completely black. She didn't dream. But then along came this throb. A constant throb which slowly got worse and worse until eventually she decided to open her eyes to find out what the hell this throb was.

She ripped her eyes open. At first the light of where she was so blinding that she squinted and closed her eyes again. But after a few more tries she managed to completely open them and everything came into focus.

Molly was in a bedroom. An apartment bedroom it seemed. The walls were a block pale cream. But she noticed at the corner someone had started painting some black spirals but stopped suddenly. There was a wooden cabinet to her left. With knots in the deep brown which gave it character. On it rested a lamp which shade matched that of the walls. To her right lay a clock on the wall but the hands had been snapped off so she had no idea what time it was. From what she could see of the floor, it was a soft brown carpet which complemented the walls perfectly. She was lying in the middle of a double bed under the covers, which were black with white curls scattered randomly over it. She was wearing her comfy kitten pyjamas. A door lay directly ahead of her. There were no windows.

For a second, Molly stared around at her surroundings, completely baffled as to where she was and how she got there. She retraced her steps in her mind. She finished the paperwork, stepped out the morgue, and...Saw Jim.

Molly's heart raced overtime as she remembered what had happened to her. She jumped forward and tried to dash towards the door. But something held her back. Molly turned to the side and saw that her hands were cuffed to the bed post. She tried to come to terms with the situation. Jim had kidnapped her, _undressed_ her (a thought that made her shudder down to her bones) and handcuffed her, spread-eagled to a double bed.

Molly took several deep breaths and tried to think about what the pretty, athletic girls in films would do. _Well,_ she thought _they'd find something to pick the lock_. She searched around the room with her eyes and found nothing. Molly sank back into the pillows. She tried to stay calm. To think of ways out. To remember that people would miss her. But she did the only thing she was capable of in that moment.

She began to cry. And not the delicate, nice tears people did in films. It was proper crying. Tears racked her body and tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Snot dripped from her nose. She couldn't wipe it away because of her bonds, so she was just a huge snotty, teary mess. _Jim'll hear,_ The rational part of her mind thought. _Let him bloody hear!_ The other part yelled.

After around ten minutes of this uncontrollable crying, Molly heard a key in the door. Her tears silenced immediately and she sat up, holding her chin high in a way she hoped looked defiant. The door swung open and Jim stood there.

He looked _pissed._

He had changed out of his Westwood suit and was wearing silk pyjamas with a dressing gown. Still looked designer. His face wore an annoyed grimace. In his hand was a gun. He stepped into the room, shut the door, and turned the key. The door clicked with an ominous thud.

"_Molly,_ dear." Though Jim was smiling, his tone was one of annoyance and impatience and his smile was slightly insane. He scratched the back of his head with the tip of his gun. "I had almost _completely_ forgotten about you! What a shame. Now, Molls, I realise that the stuff injected you with messes up your body clock, I _truly_ do. But it is 3am. I have had a day like you wouldn't _believe_ and all I want to do is catch a few winks of sleep." His words were slow and dragged out. As if he was talking to a child or to himself.

He sighed and lunged forward suddenly, making Molly jump. He was now sat on top of the covers, beside her legs. He leaned forward slowly, gently, and Molly closed her eyes, fearing the worst. She felt the end of the gun on her face and stopped breathing altogether. She braced herself for the shot. But all Jim did was use the gun to wipe a stray hair out of her eyes. Somehow that was equally as terrifying. As he did so he whispered, "Is that _really_ too much to ask, dear?"

Molly sat in absolute silence. Treating him like a ticking bomb. Any sudden movement or noise would set him off. "Now Molls, _please_ keep quiet," he stood up off the bed and faced the door. Jim looked over his shoulder at her. Almost pleading."For me?"

Molly couldn't help it. The situation just crushed her. She let out a sob. And then hiccoughed.

Jim sighed and faced the door. His back was ridged. He let out a deep breath and unlocked the door. The corridor outside was a dull grey.

"Seb?" he called down the hall. A tall man stepped to attention next to him. He was a couple of inches taller than Jim and had a lot more muscle. He was buff. He had a straggly beard and piercing brown eyes. He had short dark hair. Molly couldn't decide if it was black or brown. A machine gun was flung casually over his shoulder. He was smoking a cigarette.

"Boss? The usual?"

Jim looked forlornly back at Molly, as though reluctant, as if she'd disappointed him. "Unfortunately, yes. But gag her first. Only a couple of times, Seb, and avoid her pretty face."

Jim smiled back at Molly, as if he was doing her a huge favour. Molly felt nothing except a ball of fear turning at the pit of her stomach.

Sebastian, Molly presumed that's what Seb was short for, stepped into the room. He spat out his cigarette and snuffed it out under his foot, staining the carpet. Jim smiled reassuringly at her before sticking his hands in his pockets and whistling as he strolled down the corridor and out of sight. Sebastian locked the door. He brought a rag out of his jeans pocket and roughly tied it around her mouth. He looked at her with terrifying glee while he flexed his fists. Molly felt tears run down her cheeks. She scrunched her eyes tightly shut and did a thing she hadn't done since she was eight years old.

She prayed.

So, with her eyes shut tightly closed and prayers in her mind, she felt the first blow fall.


	4. Chapter 4: Games

**Hey guys! Sorry it took so long writing. Internet was down waaaaa. Thanks for all the reviews and story alerts and favourites! I really appreciate it! Anyway this chapter is dedicated to Helen and thegirlthatcounts. You guys keep me going!**

**The BBC own Sherlock. **

**Chapter contains swearing and some disturbing scenes ;)**

**~ Molly Johns-been-sherlocked ~**

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><p><em>"All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,<em>_you better run, better run, outrun my gun.  
><em>_All the other kids with the pumped up kicks you better run,  
>better run, faster than my bullet."<em>

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><p><em><em>Games

"Where to?" the cabbie asked Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth to give an address but paused, his eyebrows knitted together. After a minute the cabbie cleared his throat in impatience. Sherlock turned to John. "Give him Molly's address."

John raised his eyebrow and smirked. "Why can't you? Do _you _not _know_? I would have thought that you could deduce it from her coat or something."

Sherlock turned to look out of the window as the cabbie's face got more and more impatient. "Lads? I'll need where you wanna go soon."

John smirked one last time at knowing something Sherlock didn't and faced the cabbie. "65 Queen Street, please."

"Sure thing. You guys must not know London very well, that's within walking distance from here."

John looked at Sherlock. "It's fine. Just take us there," he said slowly. John could see Sherlock muttering under his breath and squinting at the cab driver. _Oh God_ John thought. _Not again. _"As quickly as possible," he said hurriedly, with a sideways glance at Sherlock.

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><p>After around five minutes in the cab, Sherlock was silent apart from the occasional mutter under his breath. John relaxed, thinking that <em>maybe<em> Sherlock wouldn't demoralise and disrupt this man's life.

They pulled up outside Molly's apartment. Well, John assumed it was Molly's apartment. A while ago, Sherlock was examining an eye in the morgue and she had dropped her address into conversation. John had never actually been there.

It was a nice enough street. A few roadwork's here and there. There was a Domino's a few apartments away and a tube station nearby. And it was a ten minute walk from Bart's. Perfect for Molly.

Sherlock jumped out of the car and disappeared down the street leaving John to pay the man. John thanked the cabby and gave him the right amount of change. He was just about to close the door when Sherlock reappeared next to him. "Just because you're afraid of your own sexuality does not justify you beating your wife because of her supposed feelings for your boss," he spoke calmly into the taxi.

John shook his head as the cabbie's face got redder and redder. _So close._ "Now, how the bloody hell do you know that? Has that bitch rung the police? I swear to God she'll get what's coming to her."

The cabbies infuriated voice was muffled by Sherlock slamming the door closed and the engine revving as he drove away. John stared at him in amazement. "_Why_ did you have to do that? That man is going to abuse his wife now!"

Sherlock gave him a pointed look. "It's my curse, John. I see everything. I notice e_verything._ And besides, I can tell that you've noted the taxi number and you're going to inform Lestrade about it later. I helped."

John just shook his head and walked towards the double doors which led to 64 and 65 Queen Street.

The doors between two gold plagues that read 64 and 65 had the name Warwick House printed above it. John pushed through the doors.

The hallway was pretty bleak. Just brown carpet and yellow walls with a smashed mirror hanging bleakly on a hook.

Sherlock dashed in front of John towards the lift, pressing the button fiercely.

"I'll be damned if you get that lift working," a croaky old voice cried from behind John. "I've been trying to get it to work for five bleedin' years."

Sherlock turned abruptly and so did John. A fat old woman faced them. She was wearing a grey dress which was dotted with different stains. Her bleak, faded blonde hair was pulled tightly into a bun and her blue eyes glinted wildly in her head. In her hand was a milk can which she took the occasional glug from. The door behind her was open and John assumed this was the resident of 64 Queen Street.

To John she looked bloody insane.

"But the nice lass upstairs traded rooms with me, for my bad knee. She's a lovely girl but the past few days have been an absolute nightmare."

At this, Sherlock, who had been inspecting the cracked mirror lazily, turned around. "Explain, 'absolute nightmare'. That doesn't seem like Molly."

"Ah, you know the girl then! You colleagues or something?" She took another glug from the milk can.

"Yes, yes, colleagues. Now explain."

"Alright then young man, keep your knickers on." John had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the look on Sherlock's face. "Well, for starters, I wouldn't have thought old Moll a partier. She's been playing God awful music at full volume for the past three days. It's driving me barmy."

John strained his ears and heard the muffled music playing. He couldn't make out the lyrics so it was just noise.

"Also, I think she must have something wrong with her fridge because it smells dreadful up there. I can smell it from down here. Can't you smell it?"

John had been standing in the draft of the door and couldn't smell anything. As he moved further into the hall, however, the smell hit him like a wave. He covered his nose and mouth with his hand. "Jesus, it smells like something's died."

At his words John and Sherlock looked at each other. Without another sound they ran like hell upstairs.

"You lads better tell her to get her act together!" the woman yelled after them.

After two flights of stairs, John and Sherlock reached a grey door with the numbers 65 in fake gold hanging from nails on the door. Sherlock turned the handle. It wasn't locked.

Stepping over the threshold, John didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to know that something was wrong. Very wrong.

It was a mess. Pots were smashed on the floor; clothes and books were strewn from upturned drawers, the TV and windows were smashed and flies buzzed around their heads. Music was blaring full blast from a stereo, the only working electronic thing in the house it seemed. John walked over to turn it down and saw that it was _Glee_'s cover of _Gives you hell _on repeat. He didn't recognise the tune or the name.

Sherlock raised his head and sniffed deeply before striding into a room just off from the kitchen/living room area in which John was currently stood in.

Directly ahead of him, beyond the sofa, TV and table were some sliding doors. Both doors were completely smashed in.

"John."

Sherlock's low but pleased voice echoed from where John presumed the bedroom was. He ran in, expecting a clue to what had happened.

Pink glared at him from within the room. Pink dresser, pink walls, pink carpet. Very pink. The dresser, like everything else, was smashed and make-up splattered the floor. Clothes were pinned to the walls with kitchen knives. But all this John noticed later. His attention was first grabbed by the gruesome sight of the bed.

It was blackened and burnt. Like someone had pointed a flame-thrower at the bed, but only the bed. For all John knew, they could have. The floors and walls remained their original glaring pink whereas the bed was a deep unwavering black. Like a scar on this room.

Upon this blackened bed lay a corpse. He was a man, Caucasian with soot black hair which matched the colour of the bed. His eyes were a mild blue and gazed without seeing at the ceiling. A gun rested a few centimetres from his right hand and a hole was visible on his right temple.

All in all, it made for a rather bizarre sight.

"Suicide?" asked John.

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly meant 'what a stupid question, of course not' before answering. "John, why would a random man commit suicide in Molly's house when she has clearly been abducted by Moriarty, he's not being subtle. It's obviously linked to her kidnapping. Maybe a clue to lead us to her whereabouts, you know Moriarty likes games."

John blinked at him. "Yeah, obvious."

"I suggest that you look for more information, and I mean really _look,_ around the apartment and I'll examine the body." Sherlock bent close to the man and sniffed around his face.

John raised his eyebrows and made his way to the door that led to the room he was in before. Before continuing, he turned. "Don't contamin–" He was cut off by the look of absolute contempt on Sherlock's face and practically ran out of the room.

Clothes that were strewn about the living area were getting to be quite hazardous, John realised as he tripped over a pair of rather revealing panties and blushed. Sherlock's muttering drifted through the open door and John rolled his eyes. Clapping his hands together, he got to work.

Searching through clothes, smashed plates and sometimes rubbish from an upturned bin was not fun. At times John wished he was in the next room smelling the body or whatever Sherlock was doing.

Around 15 minutes later, John had sufficiently scoured the living area, to no avail. He was quite thirsty and opened the fridge for something to drink. His eyes rose as he opened the door and what he saw gave him quite a start.

A ginger tabby cat was sleeping like a baby amongst a couple of vegetables. John took a step back in surprise before lifting it carefully out of the fridge and onto the ripped sofa. It opened its eyes and hissed loudly at John. Squirming in John's arms, the cat scratched its way onto the floor and was off like a shot towards the front door, which John had shut after he and Sherlock had come in. John ran after it as he noticed a flash of bright yellow on its collar.

He managed to recapture the cat, Toby its name tag read. A picture printed on paper was attached to its collar with sticky tape. It was the size of a side of A4 paper.

John glanced at it while struggling to keep hold of the writhing cat. As he noticed what it was, he ripped off the picture, dropped the cat and ran into the bedroom where the body was.

"Sherlock! I've found something! It's–" John paused in his act of waving the picture in front of him at the sight of Sherlock straddling the body and slapping it. "Sherlock?"

"John, can it wait? I'm in the middle of an experiment." Sherlock's placid voice contradicted his violent actions.

John shook away the madness of his flatmate. "No it can't. The cat was–"

"Toby."

"Yeah, how –? Oh, never mind. Toby was in the fridge, I don't know why, and this-" John waved the picture to emphasise his point, "–was attached to his collar."

At his words, Sherlock raised his eyebrows and held out his hand for the picture.

A minute passed and John was amazed at how little Sherlock had reacted. He shoved the picture back in John's face and turned towards the bed.

John peered more closely at the picture. It was of Molly. She was tied to a chair, one that John had seen smashed in the living room. She was dressed in pale pink pyjamas with kittens printed on them. The chair was placed in front of her bed which was burning fiercely; Molly was almost a complete silhouette against its glare. The man that Sherlock had continued slapping wasn't there. However, none of the above was the eeriest thing about the photo. Molly's eyes were open. Clipped open. They were forced apart using several hair slides. John could tell by the size of her pupils and the dullness of her gaze that she was unconscious. John pinched the bridge of his nose in realisation. Moriarty had undressed Molly, tied her to a chair, set her bed on fire, destroyed her apartment and gruesomely forced her eyes open in the style of Clockwork Orange.

A noise a disgust rose in John's throat and he shoved the picture back in his pocket, scrunching it up as if Moriarty could feel it. He really was a creep.

Sherlock, apparently satisfied with slapping the corpse, had stood up and was now pulling his coat on and putting his collar up.

John rolled his eyes at his attempt to look cool. "So?"

"So, what?"

"Aren't you going to say anything about the picture?" John was flabbergasted.

"It's just another one of Moriarty's tricks, John. Most likely a ploy to make me react. Obviously, I am doing the opposite of what he wants."

John just shook his head. They walked out of the apartment, leaving Toby curled up amongst the chaos.

Sherlock strode past the mad old woman downstairs and out of the door without a word; phone in hand to ring Lestrade.

John ran after him, yelling over his shoulder that Molly was fine. He turned his head back around just in time to run directly into Sherlock, who had suddenly stopped and was staring intently at a pole.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply but nodded at the telephone pole.

It was covered with the picture in John's pocket. You couldn't see the wood that lay beneath and all other posters had been covered up.

The disturbing image of Molly jumped out at John and he felt anger rise like acid in his throat. The top of the poster had '**MISSING**' in big bold letters printed on it. Then there was the picture of Molly. At the bottom were a few short sentences of description. After which read: 'Please contact Jim Moriarty on 0800 0666 if you have information.'

John reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the scrunched up paper. He began typing the numbers into his phone.

Pressure and warmth bloomed lightly on his hand and he looked up to see Sherlock gently gripping his hand.

John gave him a questioning look.

"If you ring that number, you'll get an automated message saying that it doesn't exist," Sherlock said pointedly.

"So why put it there?" John asked.

"666, John."

"So?"

"666 is the Devil's number."

Suddenly music blasted John's ears and he recognised it as the song that was on in Molly's apartment.

He looked up to see a hand open the window from the inside and the lyrics were distinguishable.

"_When you see my face,  
>hope it gives you hell,<br>hope it gives you hell."_

And as John turned around, he saw that every available surface: wall, pole and floor, was taken up with the gruesome poster of Molly.

_"When you see my face,  
><em>_hope it gives you hell."_

John felt the anger rise again as he saw that he was surrounded by the photo of Molly.

_"Hope it gives you hell."_

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><p><em><em>**Gagh I wrote and rewrote that ending so many times. Sorry if it's rubbish.**

**Reviews aren't compulsory but appreciated!**

**3**

**~ Molly Johns-been-sherlocked ~**


	5. Chapter 5: Dominoes

**Hey guys! Yeah I'm not dead, though by the amount I've updated you could assume that! No, just had so many exams at school and homework and BLAH.**

**If you want to send me hate about it go ahead. I will just delete it. I will not feel guilty about putting my schoolwork first.**

**Now, I like this chapter. Some will say that the ending is cheesy but HEY, I like cheesy endings.**

**Hope you enjoy and remember to press that review button!**

**DISCLAIMER: The BBC and Mofftiss own Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended :)**

**-Molly aka crimescenegigglers | tumblr**

**WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SWEARING.**

**Dedicated to almalore and thegirlthatcounts.**

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><p><em>"All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,you better run, better run, outrun my gun.<em>  
><em>All the other kids with the pumped up kicks you better run,<em>  
><em>better run, faster than my bullet."<em>

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><p><span>Chapter five: Dominoes.<span>

The second time Molly awoke, she wasn't in handcuffs. She took this as a good sign.

She sat up slowly, warily, rubbing the pink lines circling her wrists where the handcuffs had bitten in.

The room was exactly the same, except an outfit of clothes lay at the foot of the double bed on which she was lying. At least he hadn't dressed her this time. Molly thought she might have been sick if he had.

Suddenly a wave of pain racked her and she gasped. She lifted up her pyjama top cautiously to reveal purple splotches spreading like spilt ink across her torso. The contrast between her skin and the bruises made her wince along with the pain.

Molly didn't know how long she'd been unconscious after the beating, but she knew she'd been in her kitten pyjamas for at least two days straight. Which was gross.

She pushed herself into a standing position and after five minutes of painful wiggling and sliding, she managed to pull on her favourite skin tight grey jeans and checkered black and red shirt.

Barely seconds after she had gotten dressed, the door opened. A woman of around 25 stalked in.

The first word that came to mind was badass. This girl was badass. She had an AK47 slung over her shoulder for starters. Tight black leather clothes hugged her slim body and her vivid green punk rocker Mohawk accentuated her piercing stare. She spat out her cigarette and stamped it out on the carpet in exactly the same place Sebastian had.

"Come on, boss wants to see you." The woman's voice was high and light, like an average woman's voice her age. Molly was surprised; she was expecting a gruff voice to match her clothes and style. She was also American, something else Molly wasn't expecting.

Knowing that escape was fruitless, Molly pushed herself off the bed, sucking sharp breaths through her teeth at the pain.

The woman's glare softened and she looked over her shoulder before closing the door and stepping into the room.

Molly instinctively backed off; she didn't think her body could handle another beating like Sebastian's.

But the woman raised her hands in a peaceful gesture. "Woah, geez relax. I just want to help you." With her gaze locked on Molly, the woman brought a packet of ibuprofen out of her pocket. "I know it's not much but…"

Molly lunged forward, grabbed the packet, ripped it open with her teeth and dry swallowed two tablets before freezing and remembering that the woman had a gun strapped to her back.

But the woman just chuckled. "I like you. You have a bit of backbone. Look, the boss didn't want us to give you any pain relief as a message against rebellion or some crap but I say screw that, you're hurt." She glanced around uneasily. "Even so, don't mention it to him, yeah?"

Molly nodded slowly.

"I'm Cassie, Cassie Jenkins."

"Molly Hooper."

"Well then, Molly Hooper, prepare yourself for the grand tour. First stop, slaughter house." Cassie laughed and strode out the room.

Molly blanched but had no choice but follow Cassie out the door and into the 'slaughter house.'

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><p>Molly stepped out into a long corridor. It had whitewashed walls with no decoration and a wooden floor. She tried not to look too closely at the nail scratches in the panelling.<p>

To her left, the corridor continued for a few yards with two doors interrupting the vast plane of the wall.

To her right, the overhead neon lighting flickered and faded. The doors became narrower and smaller until they were slots that could be pulled open for food.

She glanced at Cassie and then down to her left hopefully.

Cassie smirked at her, faced to the right and leant down to whisper in her ear. "Sorry about this."

Molly turned, confused, to face her. She opened her mouth to ask but before any words came out she felt the tip of the gun at the small of her back.

"Get down that corridor now."

Cassie's voice was no longer light. It deepened and became gruffer. Molly understood. Cassie was kinder than Jim or Sebastian but had a reputation to uphold and there were probably security cameras everywhere.

Molly walked cautiously down the dank corridor. Mould grew over the walls and specks of fading blood were splashed everywhere. It was quiet but Molly could hear sounds that she couldn't quite make out. She presumed some of the rooms were soundproofed.

Suddenly, almost as if walking into a wall, Molly was bombarded with screams. Obviously the sound proofed rooms had stopped.

Some screams were short and high. Some were an aching guttural moan. But all of them were awful. It was like the walk of the condemned. Each scream tore through Molly and hurt more than the bruises.

The corridor reached a thick metal door which Cassie promptly unlocked and pushed Molly through. The screams cut were off abruptly but Molly couldn't forget that harrowing experience.

The metal door was covered by some beads on string which Molly pulled aside. A homely living room lay beyond.

Clean, white furniture were placed at angles to each other and a kitchen area was cornered to a wall. It had the look of a modern apartment in a magazine.

Cassie strolled over to the kitchen area and started making toast. She gestured at a pair of double doors which led out onto a balcony.

Molly walked over to the doors opened them and gasped. A deep turquoise sea lay before her. A few feet below the balcony, water lapped at the soft grey pebbles. A stretch of green land rose out of the sea in the far distance. It was the only thing separating the sea and the unbroken blue of the sky.

She was definitely not in England anymore.

She turned right and looked over the rest of the balcony. A table with two chairs and a patterned white tablecloth greeted her. A simple stone wall with a gap at the end was behind the table.

Jim sat at the head of the table and Sebastian stood behind him. Molly froze at the sight of Sebastian and debated whether she could sneak back through the doors.

No such luck. Sebastian and Jim both looked up as she tried to turn around.

Jim smiled warmly and gestured for her to sit opposite him. "Molly, dear! How lovely to see you. I hope I can interest you in some breakfast?"

Molly sat down at the table. He asked it as a question but they both knew it wasn't.

She glanced uneasily at Sebastian and Jim turned around. "Seb? Do you mind giving Molls and I some privacy?"

Sebastian hesitated and gripped his gun. "But Boss –"

Jim interrupted him. "Seb, I really don't think Molly will be causing me much trouble, do you?"

Sebastian hesitated for a split second longer before nodding. "Yes, Boss."

He walked briskly back into the living room and Molly heard him muttering with Cassie.

She turned back to the table. A cup of orange juice sat before her and without a second thought she glugged it down. Jim leant back and smiled.

"I thought you might be thirsty. Hungry too?"

She hated to cooperate with him but she was starving. She nodded. Almost as if on cue, Cassie walked out with a plate and a bowl. On the plate were two slices of toast with jam thickly spread on them. Shreddies were in the bowl. Cassie placed the bowl in front of Jim and the plate in front of Molly. As she walked away, Molly felt Cassie squeeze her elbow.

Jim started eating the Shreddies and after a moment's hesitation Molly nibbled at the toast, forcing herself not to stuff it in her mouth. For a few minutes they ate quietly, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the waves below. Then Jim spoke.

"Why do you think I've brought you here, Molls?"

Molly stopped eating and tried to think. "I'm not sure. I thought I meant nothing to you, always Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock." She noticed the hint of anger in her voice and told herself to control her feelings. How could she still hurt over a false relationship?

Jim put down his spoon; leant forward with his head on his clasped hands and looked softly at her; like someone would look at a child who didn't understand a difficult situation. "Molls, you have to understand that, although I faked our relationship, I saw your potential. I made a mental note and here we are." He leant back again, smiling.

Molly frowned, confused. "My potential? For what? I'm average at everything!"

Jim didn't say anything so she continued, her voice rising with emotion. Like when they were together, she vented her feelings at him and although she hated herself for trusting him, it felt good to talk to someone again.

"I'm average at my job, there are people much worse, yeah, but there are people way better as well. My mum doesn't give a shit anymore; she only cares about my sister who runs her own bloody business in New York. They even went and had bloody traditional Thanksgiving dinner last year without me, insisting that I'd be "too busy". Sherlock barely glances at me and yeah, I know that he'll never like me how I like him but he could still fucking _appreciate _the work I do for him. John's nice, but always polite nice, like you have to. I feel so bloody inadequate compared to everyone else and the only person who seems to care even a _little_ is –"

She paused, blushing furiously from anger and at the fact she was about to reveal something that she hadn't told anyone. Not even Toby.

Jim leant forward again, his eyes glinting with a type of glee. "Go on."

Molly took a deep breath and finished. "–Greg."

Jim blinked. "Greg?"

"Lestrade, he's Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard."

"Oh yes, him. Well, good for you."

Jim grinned and Molly realised her mistake. In her rush of emotion she had alerted the most dangerous man in England to her crush. Jim's interest meant that he would use this against her. _Stupid, Stupid _she thought.

"Um, so, my potential? What potential?" She tried desperately to steer away from the topic of Greg.

"Ah yes, well, as you know I have a game to play with Sherlock." Molly was reminded that he was, in fact, insane. "I need to keep him on his toes. I need to target him indirectly." Jim pointed at her.

Molly felt a sinking feeling in her gut that this whole experience was for nothing. "I'm sorry to burst this insane little bubble of yours but Sherlock doesn't give two shits about me. He's probably only slightly annoyed at the idiot that's replaced me."

Jim looked at her. Molly stared back defiantly before flicking her eyes back to the floor. "Follow me," he said, rising out of his chair and walking around the wall behind him. He didn't check to make sure Molly was following; she had no choice.

Molly walked tentatively around the wall, not sure what she'd find on the other side.

The first thing that hit her was the colour. Flowers leaped out and brushed her face and the grass was the vibrant green of a rainbow. She was in a garden. In the centre there was a tarmac square of, Molly guessed, 10 by 10 metres. It was lined by fir trees. The whole place had a very symmetric feel with only the wall behind her telling her which way she came in.

Jim had walked to the edge of the tarmac square and Molly walked to stand beside him. Only then did she notice what was on the floor.

A man of about 40 was crouched with his back to her. He wore a dirty brown overcoat with grey trousers. His hair was shoulder length and hung raggedy and greasy down his back. Every now and then he scuttled carefully sideways.

He was laying out hundreds and hundreds of spiralling dominoes. It must have taken him days. Molly gasped and the man jumped quickly around, almost rabid. Judging by the bags under his eyes, Molly thought he hadn't slept either. Her eyes widened, this was a form of punishment. For the prisoners.

Jim strolled over to the other side of the square where the dominoes started, under the watchful eyes of the man. Molly's uneasy feeling grew.

"You see, Molls, your potential is something I don't see often. You had a spark." He stopped where the dominoes started. "I want you to work for me. I want you to start the domino effect." And with his last words he knocked over the chain of dominoes. The man near Molly started screaming, a wild, feral scream. He started clawing at his face and ran at Jim.

Some men appeared from within the trees and grabbed the man before dragging him into the gloom of the close-knit firs.

Molly started numbly at Jim as the words set in. He laughed; an insane laugh. Not like the manic insanity of the prisoner, but a controlled insanity; a dangerous insanity.

All she could do was watch the hundreds of dominoes fall as Jim's ominous laugh rose above the faded screams of the deranged, doomed man.

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><p><strong>Now I reread it, that ending really is a giant pile of cheese.<strong>

**Ah well. I wrote and rewrote many MANY times so that'll do.**

**As always reviews aren't compulsory but incredibly appreciated. **

**Thanks for reading and staying with me! Hello to the people on Tumblr :)**

**~Molly | crimescenegigglers | detsiel | ialwayshaveamagicstick |**


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